


The stain on your lips (matches the colour of mine)

by SmilinStar



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 23:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3914170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Then, what do you feel guilty about?” He looks at her then, turns to meet her wide eyes, and he can see it there on her face. She knows. She always did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The stain on your lips (matches the colour of mine)

\-----

 

 

 

I. 

 

 

 

He doesn't hear the shatter of the crystal as it falls to the ground. He only sees the wine spill out from broken glass, soaking into the rug, spreading in every direction like ink being blown on paper through a straw.

 

It's a bright, sparkling red in this lighting. He thinks of fresh blood gliding down skin, seeping into the collars of shirts and the front of blouses, bright red darkening as it seeps through every woven thread.

 

The whiter the blouse, the better the contrast.

 

It's art.

 

Has his pulse racing, gums itching and veins yearning and he loves every minute of it.

 

“Oh crap!” Caroline's panicked voice breaks through his disturbed thoughts and he blinks twice and shakes his head as if to clear them from his head. “I'm so so sorry! Ugh! I've just ruined your rug!”

 

She's dabbing furiously at the stain, pieces of glass scraping her knees, cutting into her skin but she isn't even paying attention.

 

Blood trickles down her leg, sinks into the stain of red wine until he can't tell them apart.

 

He bends down on to his knees beside her, stills her hand with his and gently removes the small piece of glass from her leg. She winces, finally noticing the shard slicing skin.

 

“It's fine, Caroline,” he says, rubbing his thumb over the cut, smearing blood across her bare leg as it heals like the magic is in his fingertips, “It's only wine, not spilt blood. It's not the end of the world.”

 

“Yeah, well, they stain as bad as each other, but,” she finishes with a tilt of her head and a conciliatory smile, “I get your point.”

 

She tries again to soak up what she can with the napkin, but gives up with a sigh realising the futility.

 

“It's okay, leave it.”

 

“Nope,” she says, and then she's pulling herself to stand and she's got her full-on, task-oriented Caroline Forbes face on, “Tell me you have baking soda, or vinegar or vanish or something!”

 

“Caroline . . .” he says, following after her and grabbing hold, both arms coming around her waist, keeping her in place, “Seriously, leave it, I'll sort it out later.” He drops his head, kisses the side of her neck, and he can feel her struggling with letting it go, and he isn't afraid to play dirty.

 

“There are far more fun things we could be doing right now,” he breathes into her hair, and he feels her resolve melt in his arms. She leans back into him, tilts her head just a fraction more and he's smiling into the warm curve of her neck, trailing kisses up behind her ear.

 

She spins in his arms, winds her own around his neck as she looks up at him, “Fine, but don't blame me if you can't get it out later.”

 

“Won't be a problem,” he tells her.

 

He leaves out the part about him having no intention of cleaning it up.

 

It's art, after all.

 

 

 

II. 

 

 

 

She settles her head back, blonde hair fanning out on the white of the pillow behind.

 

“You do this on purpose,” he says.

 

“Do what?” she asks, looking up at him, all innocence.

 

He rubs his thumb across her lower lip, smears what's left of the blood-red lipstick he hasn't kissed off already on to her cheek.

 

“This,” he answers.

 

She bites down on her lower lip, and smiles, “It's the strangest thing. You can't resist it at all.”

 

And there's a glint in her eyes that says she knows more than she's letting on. That she can see right through him into the deepest, darkest pits that her light still hasn't reached. Understands just what he sees and how it makes him feel.

 

And yet she's not disgusted, doesn't run away. She's just biding her time, because she knows, eventually, she'll reach those dark corners, and he'll let her.

 

He settles over her, leans down and breathes, “It's you I can't resist.”

 

She closes the distance, “Glad to hear it.”

 

 

 

 III.

 

 

 

It nearly knocks him out cold. The sudden rush of adrenaline that hits him as a nameless face in the crowd jogs suppressed memories of things he'd rather forget, and its nearly too much for his hundred and sixty year old heart.

 

He moves with him, still a distance away.

 

Wants to call out, shout out a “Hey!” just to get him to turn, so that he can get a better look at his face.

 

Because it can't be.

 

But he looks so alike.

 

So alike another name on a list he's etched in his mind.

 

He never turns though. Walks out the door and leaves him to wonder.

 

“So they won't swap it without a receipt, and I was this close to busting out the compulsion, which I know, I know, I wouldn't ever _actually_ do, but it doesn't matter cos they don't even have it in my size any more . . . and are you even listening?”

 

She slaps his arm lightly with the back of her hand.

 

“Hmm,” he answers with a nod, still looking at the exit, “They don't have your size.”

 

He thinks she's pouting, but can't be too sure, “Nice try Mister, but you want to tell me why you've got that 'Hey, it's Thursday look' on your face?”

 

He doesn't even miss a beat when he bats back with, “Tuesday. It's Tuesday. Although technically it's Saturday.”

 

There's a surprised smile on her face as she steps around to face him, “Okay, I admit, I'm impressed. But that doesn't mean I'm letting you off answering the question.”

 

He sighs, a half smile on his face, “Well, you wouldn't be you then, would you?” He retrieves the bag from her hand and adds it to the three he's already carrying, and moves to leave the shop. She's right there beside him, in step, as they walk down the street, arm curled through his, thumb brushing over the hairs of his forearm.

 

“Hey,” she says softly, nudging into his side, “What's on your mind?”

 

He breathes out, and gives in, “I just saw a face that reminded me of someone, that's all.”

 

“Who?”

 

He stops once they get to his car, leaves her standing on the sidewalk as he puts all her shopping bags in the back, and then returns to open the passenger door for her.

 

She doesn't look away from him as she slides in, and he doesn't look back.

 

“Stefan?” Her question remains unanswered as he comes around to sit in the driver's seat, hands still and unmoving on the steering wheel.

 

He stares ahead, before finally opening his mouth and letting out the words he'd been afraid of for so long, “Someone I'd killed on my most recent humanity-less rampage.”

 

“Oh,” is all she says, because she knows what he really meant to say was _our. Our humanity-less rampage._

 

“Yeah.”

 

She shifts slightly, turning her body to face him though he still can't meet her eyes, “I still think about it too. All those people we hurt, and . . . _killed.”_ She struggles with that one word in particular, winces as it leaves her lips, but she's nothing if not determined, it's one of the many reasons he loves her, and so she forces herself to finish, “I still think about it. How much pain and suffering we caused and not just to them, but their families too. And the guilt is still there and I know it won't go away, but I also know it'll eat away at you if you let it.”

 

“That's it though, Caroline. I don't feel guilty. Not about that.”

 

“Then, what do you feel guilty about?”

 

He looks at her then, turns to meet her wide eyes, and he can see it there on her face. She knows. She always did.

 

“That I enjoyed every second of it.”

 

She doesn't shy away from his gaze, and simply says after a long moment, “You want to know something, Stefan? So did I.”

 

She reaches out, grabs hold of one his hands and pulls it into her lap.

 

“We're vampires,” she shrugs, and he can almost hear the unspoken, 'Duh!' she would have ordinarily tagged on to the end had he not been seconds away from imploding. “It's part of who we are now,” she continues, “And without our humanities of course that part of us is gonna run free and riot. That we feel guilt at all is what makes the difference.”

 

She tugs on his hand and he falls forward just a fraction, close enough so she can press her lips to his forehead and his eyes flutter closed.

 

He shakes his head against hers, “I have a hundred and sixty years on you, and you've still got a better handle on being a vampire than me.”

 

She pulls back, teasing curve to her lips, “Student has surpassed the master.”

 

“Hey, I wouldn't go that far.”

 

She shrugs. “Think you can muster up a smile now,” she says with a grin, changing the subject, knowing as well as he that they've done enough soul searching for one day, “Because we're shopping, and what's better than shopping, and don't give me that look, we haven't even found my dress yet!”

 

He does one better. He laughs. Pulls her hand up to his mouth, brushes his lips against her knuckles, and laughs.

 

“Fine,” he says, hands back on the steering wheel, “Where to next Miss Forbes?”

 

She smiles, “Surprise me.”

 

 

 

 

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a prompt from the wonderful knives-and-lint on Tumblr (aka Lint on AO3): S/C. Stefan doesn't feel guilty for the blood spilled and pain caused. He feels guilty because he loved every minute of it.


End file.
